My Dream, My Bad Dream
by Bluest-of-Jayys
Summary: Sweden has a dream from a long ago battle and wakes up quite shaken from it. Finland calms him down. Written for Surströmmiakki fest 2015. Prompts: Winter, Lost, 1800's, Heartbeat, Dream, 2000's.


**My Dream, My Bad Dream**

 **Bluest-of-Jayys**

The trees. Any one of them could be a soldier, ready to strike with a blade colder than the winter air.

Sweden cast his eyes around, sword crossed before him, ready to spring at the slightest glimpse of movement. This forest offered too many hiding places; his back was pressed against one of the massive trees suffocating the landscape and he still felt like a sitting duck.

War had frozen this landscape and stagnated the normally beautiful ebb and flow of nature. Sweden held his breath, lest he disturb the crystalline atmosphere and alert their enemies to his presence. He briefly wondered how Finland was doing; his ally had agreed to take his troops for a scout and ambush mission around the other side of the forest.

"It will be all right," Finland had said when they'd first stepped foot into this frozen labyrinth, "We will thin their numbers before they can reach your troops. All you have to do is wait for my signal"—he made the sound of a common starling—"and you can send your men in."

"The starling is summer fowl," Sweden had replied, squeezing Finland's hand.

"Trivial concerns," grinned Finland, "Are you ready, then?"

"May we be in Freyja's favor," answered Sweden. He had watched Finland and his men scamper soundlessly into the woods and tried to shove down the pang of worry that gnawed at his heart. Finland would be okay. He was a master tactician and a seasoned warrior. The battle would be over before he knew it, and he and Finland would retire to their shared lodging to drink themselves silly, warm against each other's bodies.

Sweden's visions for the night seemed increasingly unattainable as the day dragged on. He had yet to hear Finland's starling call… As a matter of fact, he had yet to hear anything. No crunching of snow as soldiers passed. No cries as lives came to an end. No grating of metal against metal. Nothing.

Then he heard the screams—they pierced his heart surely as pain pierced the owner of those heart-wrenching cries. Sweden sprung from his hiding place and raced through the forest, suddenly feeling colder than the air around him.

Those screams—that had been Finland's voice!

It did not take him very long to find his ally, on his back in the snow, the blade of his own sword buried in his chest. Sweden sunk to his knees in the red snow, cradling Finland's head in his hands.

"You… I…"

His trembling lips refused to form words. His ally, his friend, the love of his life lay below him in bloodied snow, smiling like nothing was wrong.

"Sweden," Finland gasped. Crimson rivulets trickled from the corner of his mouth and his violet eyes were glassy. "They got me."

"No," whispered Sweden, pressing his hand to Finland's wound only to find it wet and sticky with blood, "No…"

"I'm okay," Finland answered, eyes slipping closed, "I just want to… sleep for a while, okay?"

"No, Finland… No, don't sleep. No…"

Finland drew in one last, ragged breath ready to convey a message that he regretted keeping to himself. He forced his eyes open, forced them to meet Sweden's own ocean blues.

"Love you, Sweden," he said.

Then everything went dark.

 **XxX**

Sweden awoke with a start, as if his own consciousness had struck him in the chest. It took him several moments for the spirals spinning behind his eyes to dissipate, and when he finally managed to blink them away, images from his dream were left behind, a slideshow of gore and pain flashing through the darkness. His breath hitched in his chest and he stiffened—the image he did not want to see or think about ever again, the one that sent him into a trembling mess of emotions, had lingered over his mind's eye: his Finland, bloodied and on the brink of death, lying in a bed of red snow, gasping for air as he grew cold under Sweden's fingertips.

 _Finland!_

He shot up with a gasp accompanied by a sense of urgency, ready to jump out of bed and do anything to save the love of his life, until he realized that he was not on the battlefield. He was not wearing antiquated armor nor was he fighting for his life against the forces of the empires surrounding him. Rather, he was in his bed, wearing a flannel pajama top and clutching at the sheets with blanched knuckles. His breathing began to calm as warm skin shifted against him, bare shoulders flattening to reveal a pale chest marked with scars. Sweden let out a sigh as he realized that Finland lay on his back beside him, sleeping soundly in the too-large pajama pants he had borrowed from Sweden. In the dark, Sweden could barely see the steady rise and fall of Finland's chest, but he could hear his snores—quiet whispers originating from his chest—and they calmed his erratic pulse some. His Finland was alive and breathing peacefully beside him.

Sweden reached over to brush his hand across Finland's bare chest, his fingertips trailing across Finland's raised collarbone and the divot of his throat, worshipping the scattered nicks and scars from battles long past. Finally, he settled on the center of Finland's chest, pressing his palm flat against his smooth skin. He found the vibrations of Finland's heartbeat, softly thudding against his palm, and settled back into bed with his ear pressed against Finland's chest. He wanted his Finland close to him, heartbeat ringing in his ear and scalp tickling from Finland's gentle breathing.

In the darkness, Finland shifted. Lazy fingers danced up Sweden's arm, soft lips let out a cooing sigh that ruffled Sweden's hair.

"Sweden," Finland breathed, a simple affirmation of his husband's existence.

"Had a bad dream," Sweden whispered back, "from long ago."

Finland's other hand came up to cradle Sweden's hand against his chest. "Did I die in your dream, baby?" he asked, an undercurrent of concern coloring his sleepy murmurs.

Sweden shifted against his chest—a nod. "Yea," he said.

"Mmm," came an acknowledging hum, "it's okay, baby." Finland scratched the back of Sweden's head gently, "I'm here. I'm alive and I'm here."

God, Sweden loved it when Finland called him "baby." He curled his arm around Finland's waist, snuggling deeper into Finland's chest. Beneath Finland's fingers, the muscles in his shoulders relaxed, and he blew out a sigh that sent a trail of goosebumps prickling across Finland's skin.

Finland's heart beating by his ear was the assurance that his love lived and breathed in his arms. He slid a leg between Finland's own in an attempt to press their bodies as close together as possible. The softness of Finland's skin against his cheek, the sweet smell of his body, the warmth between his thighs, and the chill of his toes forced the scraps of his dream out of his mind. In the morning he would wake up to the sun streaking across his love's lips, and he would lean down and taste the light as he kissed his lover awake. Finland would then card his fingers through Sweden's choppy locks, smile sleepily at him, and mumble, "good morning, baby."

But in the meantime, Sweden let himself be lulled to sleep by the steady beat of Finland's heart and the _skritch skritch_ of Finland's fingers in his hair.

* * *

 **AN: Ayy yoo this babby was written for Surstr** **ö** **mmiakki fest 2k15. I combined like 6 prompts for this one too.**

 **Anyway it's also here:** **surstrommiakki . dreamwidth 17926 . html # cutid1**


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